


Every Little Bit

by Lortan



Series: A bit or a bite [2]
Category: Redwall
Genre: A ferret married a mouse, Blindness, F/M, I Ship It, I love ferrets!, Murder of the helpless, Not sure how that would work in real life, OC mouse, Plus ferrets, Stockholm Syndrome, You think they're the good guys, but dang, but she isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 17:34:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15224261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lortan/pseuds/Lortan
Summary: Mayzie. A mouse. A blind mouse, in fact. And a slave, a cook, a killer, a wife. Because surprisingly few things can stop a mousemaid. The blindness never stood a chance.





	Every Little Bit

Mayzie. A mouse. A sweet little mouse, the species that lived in little caves and churches and the great Redwall Abbey, and baked bread and made tapestries and only ever fought to protect their home, and then fought fiercely.

Mayzie. Blind. Attracted to strong smells and stenches, slippery textures and loud sounds, and deft at dodging anything that came towards her, to the point that most didn't even remember she was blind. Flexible and fast, and quick to hatch a plot, to make a plan and effeciantly carry it out. Terrible at bread baking and tapistry making and fierce full time, threatened or not.

Mayzie. Kidnapped. Taken at her young age and tossed into a world of slavery and battles, because the ferrets who took her didn't realize she couldn't see, and wanted someone to cook for them. So cook she did. She sometimes failed and sometimes she didn't. But much better then cooking, were the raids.

Mayzie. Joining the raids. Scared creatures were more likely to trust a mouse. She could pretend to be on their side, and lead them into traps. She could dodge blows on the field, be surrounded by the strong smells and stenches of blood and fire, the slippery textures of bloody puddles, the loud noises of clashing metal and desperate screams. She could put the dying out of their misery, slip along the edges of the carnage and slit throats with kitchen knives so that no one would survive to tell the tale. She could laugh with the ferrets afterwards, serve them soup and chopped fruit and receive tales of the battle and pats on the back for her good work, and a kiss on the cheek from the leader.

Mayzie. Proud. Whenever accused, accusing right back. Laughing as the accusing spikedogs and moles and whatever else fell to her battlefield traps. She never failed to laugh.

Mayzie. Fierce as her ancestors, thriving and throwing herself into fights. Be it with prey or enemies or even the ferrets who complained about her special treatment and attention from the band leader, and that they never ate bread. She kicked and clawed and bit, and made herself a reputation for being fierce full time.

Mayzie. Free. Freed for good work, for being such a good and tricky little monster that everyone often forgot that she was a slave in the first place. There were more slaves now, anyhow, she wasn't so needed.

Mayzie. Staying. Unable to abandon her ferret captors, unable to go back to when she was young and trying to bake and sew tapestries. She couldn't abandon her duties as cook completely, afraid that the new slaves might get rebellion into their silly little heads and try to poison the food. She always made the slaves taste it first, each and every dish. Neither could she leave the battlefields, the squelchy feel of blood and mud and the clatter and crackle of burning huts, the cries of victims, the rush her senses finally got. Her sight was almost replaced during raids the rest of her senses on enough overdrive to completely replace it. 

Mayzie. Happily married. The ferret leader's attention had long since passed simple kisses and pats, and she was flattered and happy to give him whatever he wanted, pleased to be a good wife with a husband who treated her well and doted on her with soft clothes, and new knives with which to kill the injured enemies. She no longer joined in the fights so deeply, no longer often led unsuspecting families into traps, now content to simply clean up the witnesses and be presant for the loud noises and screams. Her husband didn't want her getting hurt, after all.

Mayzie. A mother to an orphaned baby ferret. The offspring of some of their best fighters, who were killed in battle with some unusually prepared mice along the shorelines. Her husband had brought the babe to her and she had accepted, changed his name from Ractclaw to Scarlet, and went to find some proper blankets for him.

Mayzie. Happier then ever, with a fortress home being built for her and her family by slaves. The ferrets were well known, powerful and rich now, and her husband, the leader, had decided it was time to settle down with his mouse bride and adopted son, so take over a decently sized section of forest and shoreline and rule in tyranny. The fortress was only small, but built strong, and she looked forward to its completion, so that she could aid once more on the battlefield, once more relish her senses roused with death.

Mayzie. Practically a queen. Dressed in soft clothes and with knives in her belts, blind white eyes sharp as her blades and always laughing. Teaching Scarlet all he would need to know and bathing in her husband's attention. Still cooking. 

Mayzie. Widowed by a well aimed arrow during a fight with otters. She had the head of the arrow's shooter, having helped her ferrets win yet another fight, but it wasn't enough. She missed her husband's touches at night.

Mayzie. Still with her long ago captors, still as free as a willow and still killing. Still without a mate. Scarlet was still young, but would take his adoptive father's place when old enough, and in the meantime, Mayzie and her husband's second in command would take care of the fort. They would all survive. Mayzie would do the same as always and simply disregard her missing sight in favor of strong smells and stenches, slippery textures, and loud noises, and her duties to the ferrets.

Mayzie. Old and weak, but still as clever as ever. Still telling her grown son Scarlet advice and still occasionally pleading to follow him to battle. No one would ever suspect an old mousemaid of treachory, after all. And still insisting that the slaves tasted the food first. She wouldn't be losing anyone to poison, not ever.

Mayzie. Dead of old age. Off to see her husband in the Forest. Her son ruling strong and the fort expanded to fit the still growing ferret army. Proud of her life and never regretting the turns it had taken. She had been happy.

Mayzie. A mouse. A sweet little mouse, the species that lived in little caves and churches and the great Redwall Abbey, and baked bread and made tapestries and only ever fought to protect their home, and then fiercely.

Mayzie. Her home was where her heart was, and her heart had just happened to be on the battlefeild.

**Author's Note:**

> Meh. I was bored. I thought it would be fun to step outside the box and make a mouse the bad guy for once, instead of stereotyping them as good and sweet like the actual Redwall books do. So here, have a psychotic mousemaid with stockholmes syndrome and a knife. This can only end well.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please drop a comment and goodbyeeeeee!


End file.
